


what do you know about the things i feel for you

by peachcandle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, None of them know how to take care of themselves, Pining Martin Blackwood, Season/Series 02, Sickfic, but isn't that a given, martin has anxiety and jon is paranoid, martin's doing his best, they don't know how to communicate, this is set in season 2 because that is where i am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23795209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachcandle/pseuds/peachcandle
Summary: someone's gotta take care of Jon and that someone sure as hell isn't going to be Jon
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 36
Kudos: 332





	what do you know about the things i feel for you

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in early season 2. I'm only as far as early season 3, so please forgive me if there's any discontinuity issues :/ this is also my first time writing them but I really adore them...

It’s raining. One of those torrential downpours that befalls the world every so often, berating the pavement, crashing down too quickly for the streets to drain. London is the roar of the storm, the blur of traffic lights through windshield wipers running at the fastest setting, a dark sky and puddles rapidly merging into a larger, more menacing conglomerate.

The sidewalks are empty.

Better to experience the relentless, undulating waves of rain as angry white noise on the roof, as pebbles thrown against windows, than to feel the bite of it on your bare skin, the chill as it soaks through your clothes and heads straight to your bones. 

When Martin arrives at the archives, out of breath after sprinting the distance from the cab to the entryway, the floor is already slick with a trail left by someone else’s wet shoes. He notices as he’s collapsing his umbrella, partially because he’s looking down, and partially because he’s worried about the damp trails his own footprints will leave. 

He follows them into the coat area, nearly yelping when he notices Jon’s slim figure amongst the hangers, face streaked with rainwater, moisture collecting where his hair is dripping, creating dark divots where the fabric sticks to his skin. He looks as though he’s just taken a shower and put clothes on without toweling off. 

Even for Jon, it’s a new level of unkempt, and something about that makes Martin’s heart stutter. 

Especially because sightings of Jon have become so rare since Gertrude’s body was found. It was all bullshit, Martin thought, to try and come back to work normally after that. He still remembers how the sickly sweet smell of rot had overwhelmed him. White hot panic and adrenaline fueled nausea overtaking his senses. Her lips still on the cusp of a scream, black blood, long dried, streaked from a gash near her chest and running into a spreading stain on the floor. Silence in the tunnels when he made a sound he’d wasn’t aware he was capable of making and ran back the way he came, high on abject, clawing fear. And he hadn’t even faced the brunt of the worms. 

Everyone’s been dealing in their own way. 

Sasha is pretending everything is fine. 

Tim’s been spending more time on his phone, but where he once scrolled languidly he now types skittishly. He won’t look anyone in the eye. 

Jon’s become more reclusive, more on edge, borderline paranoid. He startles, sometimes, at the sound of his own name, then hides behind the same snide affront he’s always tried to present. That touchy bravado, kicked up to eleven on Jon’s worst days, is hardly present in the way he carries himself when he thinks no one’s watching, is a facade.

And Martin, Martin has been craving conversation, has been craving comfort that can only come from the understanding of the only two people who could even fathom what he’s been through, and that-- that just won’t be happening, so the only comfort Martin ever finds himself gleaning in this building comes simply from seeing them. Knowing they’re still here, still alive and solid and breathing, still silently holding up, just as they all have to. 

Martin wonders what battles they face, what horrors won’t leave their minds. Wishes they would tell him. Wishes he could tell them. 

He hasn’t the courage to ask or to say. 

It has not been easy.

“What, Martin?” At Jon’s usual snide tone, Martin startles. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring.

“Um-” Martin begins. “I- um. Spacing out a little, didn’t mean to stare. Erm. Caught in the rain this morning?”

“Unfortunately.” Jon’s voice drips it’s usual condescension, but it’s half-hearted, too soft to carry any bite. “Good to know that your eyes are working.” Martin ignores this. Instead he focuses on how Jon had cleared his throat in between, how his words sound weathered.

“Did you leave your umbrella at home?”

“Mhm. Woke up late and couldn’t find the damned thing.” A pause, a rough sniffle, a soft cough that Jon stifles in a curled fist. The more he speaks, the worse he sounds. Martin can’t help but to assess him; nose pink from the rain, omnipresent grey circles pooling under his eyes, his beard growing in uneven patches, unmanaged for another day. “Surely, you have better things to do than to gawk at me. It’s not that impressive of a feat. To be wet.”

“I’m not-- I’m sorry I didn’t mean to,” is what Martin says, nonplussed at being called out. “It’s just, you’re _soaking_. It’s hard not to notice.” His voice takes on a pitchy quality when Jon folds his arms and gives a full body shiver, sniffling again afterwards. 

“Yes, well. It’s not the end of the world. It’s embarrassing more than anything, to have to walk around dripping all over everything” 

“You shouldn’t have to.” Martin replies, speaking faster than he means to, “Let me find you a spare towel, or I could ask Tim if he’s got a spare change of clothes lying around.”

“Don’t bother with it. I’ll dry off eventually. I’m going to get to work, I suggest you do the same.” Jon walks briskly past him. There’s a tightness to his pace that doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Wait!” Martin hears himself saying, acutely aware that formality is the only thing keeping Jon around. He swallows, suddenly timid in the face of the attention he’s demanded, “Some of my clothes are still up in the storage room, just so- I don’t know, just in case anything happens and I ever need to--” his voice catches then softens at the memory pale worms, crawling in droves through the crevices of his apartment, “--sleep here again. I’m sure there’s a sweatshirt or something, maybe even some sweatpants you could--”

“That won’t be necessary.” Annoyance is seeping into Jon's tone now. Martin's been talking too much. “I’m sure, Martin, that even you could deduce that we have different builds.”

And Martin bristles, “You don’t have to be so nasty, Jon! I just--” But Jon has already started down the hall. _“_ Thought you’d want to be warm.” he finishes to an audience of empty hangers. _Would like you to be warm._

A familiar cavern begins to grow in his chest.

The squished sounds of Jon’s wet shoes begins to taper out, ending with the sound of his office door latching shut. Martin thinks he hears coughing, harsher, he supposes, given that the walls provide some notion of privacy.

Worried thoughts rush through his head. 

_Jon is unwell. Is he sleeping enough? Clearly not. Eating enough? Taking care of himself? Why even ask that. Maybe he’s feverish. He shouldn’t be here. Or perhaps that’s always how he sounds in the mornings? Is it? Isn’t it?_

Time passes and Martin remains still. There’ a growing damp patch on his pant leg from where his umbrella is resting, and the ends of his curls that were snagged before he could get his umbrella up are beginning to dry. 

He still hasn’t taken off his coat.

\---

Throughout the day, Martin continues to worry. His mind drifts to Jon while he’s researching, and he finds himself typing in keywords for cold remedies instead of the locations of events he’s supposed to be fact checking. 

He’s not getting anything done. 

He wanders past the archivist’s office like a ghost, again and again, making excuses, never questioning the strain in his chest every time he passes that closed door, talking himself in and out of making tea, making soup, offering to buy cough drops on his lunch break, impulses that crowd his mind and never break the surface. 

And he can’t seem to stop himself. 

Not that he’s even trying to. He’ll admit, it’s much easier to shift his attention to Jon’s needs than to think about his own, and Jon just makes it so _easy_ to worry. 

There are people he needs to follow up with. _Yes, Martin, get back to work._

Incidents he needs to confirm. _But oh, Martin, you know that no one will take care of Jon if you don’t._

They can wait. _Indeed, they can._

Martin huffs out the kind of frustrated sigh that comes from an aching need to act and a lack of a right time to do so. He glances at Jon’s closed door again, trying to remind himself that for as long as he’s worked here, Jon has always holed himself away in that office. Still. There’s a weight to his solitude now, one that extends beyond his job description, curdled with the same unease that’s been spreading among everyone, like gnarled, invasive vines, like that pale writhing mass, multiplying silently in the walls--

Painfully aware of his own heartbeat, Martin has to catch himself. He shudders and exhales a slow breath, stepping back until his shoulder blades hit the wall. And then he sinks down, inching closer to the archivist’s door until he can hear Jon’s voice.

Relief washes over him. He doesn’t remember when he started doing this, or know why it works, only that Jon’s voice causes Jane Prentiss and Gertrude and all the horrors he can never fully corroborate to recede, like some fucked up, waking lullaby. The words have mattered, only the cadence. 

He closes his eyes. Jon’s voice is trancelike. 

And then something shifts in the background, the loss of a constant. 

A harsh sneeze breaks Martin out of his stupor. He listens as Jon’s breath snags and then two more tumble out. There’s a click that follows, a frustrated sigh. A sniffle, and then a second, more aggravated one. Coughing. Another sigh that makes Martin’s chest clench. “Right. Let’s… try this again.”

At that, Martin wanders to the break room. Tim is there, in his usual spot on the sofa. They exchange polite hello’s, and then he’s back on his phone as Martin rummages through the mugs, the clinking porcelain grounding his nerves.

He makes Jon a cup of Echinacea.

After he’s poured the water, his teeth catch on his bottom lip. It’s rare for Jon to accept the offerings he makes, yet he continues to make them anyways because it’s the polite routine he’s established. It’s not because of that sweet tingle of warmth that starts in his chest and blooms unchecked whenever Jon does take him up.

And that’s the lie he tells himself. There’s nothing significant about finding the mug he gave Jon in the sink later with only the dregs remaining. There shouldn’t be. 

Steam curls up and out of the mug as he’s walking back, fogging his glasses. 

Once he’s at the door, he doesn’t allow himself to pause. He’ll never make it in if he does. He tells himself he doesn’t want to waste the tea. 

Jon startles as he lets himself in, gasping as he shoots into an upright position, tape recorder still in hand. His eyes are huge, fearful almost, but his shoulders fall once he realizes it’s Martin. The rigidity his posture takes on immediately afterwards draws attention to his previously sagging shoulders. 

Martin wishes that he wouldn’t do this. Wants so badly to tell Jon that he can see right through him, but to say that would be to admit how much attention he pays to Jon. Then and now and with an indefinite end. 

“Can’t you tell I’m busy?” His words are like tires on a gravel road, surely made worse by the nature of his job. 

“Sorry-- sorry, of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“What did you want?” His eyes sweep to Martin’s hands, skeptical. “I take it that’s for me? 

“Yes,” Martin nods, foolishness that he hasn’t felt for a long time taking root once he places the annoyance from this morning in Jon’s tone. “I thought you could use some tea. Your voice sounded off this morning.” 

He waits for Jon to tell him that it won’t be necessary, that he’s alright, thanks. Instead, Jon looks at him like he’s not taking him in, dragging a finger down his throat absentmindedly, as if he’s just remembered that it’s the source of the raw, grating sensation that accompanies every word that leaves his mouth. “I-” he sniffles again. It’s congested, sick sounding. “Would appreciate some, actually. Thank you, Martin.” 

The lack of resistance is out of character. It leaves Martin so surprised, that he just stands there dumbly, thinking about the loose fit of Jon’s shirt, all the empty space where skin used to be. He clinks before Jon can call him out for staring again, hastily murmuring, “Of course, of course. Let me just set it here.”

The Institute is silent, save for the steady sounds of rain continuing to crash around them, dimming the ambience. Martin is hyperaware of Jon, and his eyes flick up when Jon’s breath snags. Their eyes meet for a second, though Jon’s gaze is less focused. His lips are slightly parted, exposing a muted view of his teeth.

“Ehh-excuse me,” he says breathily, before twisting away harshly to pinch off a sneeze. 

“Bless you. It’s not good, you know to-” But Jon hardly registers him. He lifts his face from his elbow, then exhales two increasingly shaky breaths and folds forward again, This one is louder, an escaped attempt at retaining his typical composure.It reverberates in the cramped space, the echo dissipating like a firework’s fading embers. He can’t hide the shiver that ripples through him afterwards. When he emerges from the safety of his elbow it looks like he’s surprised even himself. A few tendrils of hair, knocked loose from the force of it, drape over his face.

“-hold them in. God, Jon. _Bless_ you.” Martin laughs lightly, quietly kicking himself once Jon lowers his arm, exposing the russet flush dusting his cheeks and a pissed expression. He swallows an apology as Jon sniffles again. He should leave now, but he can’t stop himself. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“I’m feeling well enough to be here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It-it’s not.” Martin shakes his head, “No one is surprised that you would still be here. It’s just, you sound awful, you _look_ , excuse me for saying this, awful.”

“Thank you.” 

“I’m-” Martin sighs at Jon’s curled lip. He rubs the back of his neck, and then he’s rambling, unable to hold his tongue because he’s let himself start. “I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean anything by it. Hardly anyone sees you anymore, you’re always hiding away in here, and then the one time I do run into you you’ve shown up looking like erm…I just, worry, Jon.” he finishes quietly, “We all worry.”

“I um-” Jon’s lashes sweep downwards. It’s clear that he’s uncomfortable, that Martin has struck some chord in him that he doesn’t know how to deal with, “I appreciate… all that, but I’d hope you can trust that I can…” He sniffles, elbow tentatively at half mast. He sneezes again, recovering with a watery sniffle, “...take care of myself.”

“I… don’t.” Martin is quick to say, “Have you seen yourself? You can’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re always here, you’re losing weight, and you won’t say a word to any of us about anything. We can all tell that you’re avoiding us, Jon. And then you come into work ill, and you’re still just--just-- I don’t understand why you can’t just accept that people care about your wellbeing.” 

Martin’s voice is tight and frantic in the way that it tends to get when he’s talking about his feelings, but underlying it all is raw, desperate concern. Jon’s is malicious.

“Have you ever considered that you might be reading too far into things? That you don’t have to take _care_ of everyone, of _everything_ all the time. Nobody is going to _unravel_ if you aren’t hovering. You can’t just make people fine just because you’ve noticed they’re not.”

That smarts, but Martin is too caught up in the moment for the words to sink in properly. He’s already at the edge of Jon’s desk, and he isn’t thinking when he reaches for Jon’s forehead, but he’s ready, so ready, to feel searing heat and prove his fucking point-- 

And then Jon sucks in a sharp breath of air and jerks back. The reaction feels deeper than an overstepped boundary. He’s pressed against the edge of his chair, posture taut, brows drawn tightly together, and eyes glassy and wide with… fear? Yes, that wouldn’t be fear, wouldn’t it? And what’s following it, is that guilt? Regret? Shame? 

It stings more than any snide remark ever has. 

The room feels smaller somehow.

Martin takes a step back, hand falling limply at his side. “Did you--” his voice is catching again, embarrassingly brittle with hurt, “What did you think I was going to do? Did you think I was going to hurt you?” 

“No,” Jon says, too quickly. When he brings his hand up, surely a gesture to ease the tension, his fingers are trembling. At this point, Martin doesn’t know why. “Of course not- I just, I-”

“Don’t!” The word comes out loud, sharper than Martin intends it to. Jon winces, and then he feels guilty and ridiculous. “Don’t.” He repeats, more contained, though not lacking in bitterness. “I wouldn’t… I would never…” Disgusted with how his voice is starting to waver, Martin grits his teeth. “You know what. I’ll leave you alone.” 

There’s a sound that comes from behind him as he’s turning to leave, some word that’s catching in the archivist’s throat. Martin lingers to see if it will turn into anything, and when it doesn’t he lets the door fall shut behind him. The bridge of his nose smarts.

He imagines himself going down to the basement and kicking boxes over, reveling in the chaos of weeks of organization coming apart at his hands. He’d probably invoke some curse, doing that, and you know, he doesn't even think he'd care. It's not like he hasn't already been exposed to god fucking knows what in this line of work. 

The hall is empty. There’s no one here for him. He’s not going to kick any boxes.

Instead, he chews his cheek and starts to walk away, angry at the pity that gnaws at him when Jon starts to cough, at how it deepens when it becomes clear that he’s having a hard time catching his breath. He cannot stop the way his heart clenches when he thinks of Jon, in his office, nearly buried in piles of scattered research, shivering. 

_Stupid, Martin. Don’t be stupid._

But because he’s eternally weak and unable to control himself, Martin ends up in the storage room, staring down a box of his belongings, while his heart beats too hard, too loud.

Returning is still unsettling. He’d felt only marginally safer when he’d started staying here, and much less so any time any time his eyes caught on anything pale and silver. Reflexively, he glances at the wall. And then there's something under his skin. Everything is tensing, the air is suddenly too hot and too close. He pulls his sweatshirt out by the sleeve so haphazardly that it sends everything that was laying on top of it careening onto the floor. 

Martin hurriedly shoves them back into the box and leaves, just as quickly as he arrived, trying to will away the feeling that he needs to get out of his own body.

When he shows up at Jon’s door for the second time, he decides to knock. He's wondering how long it will take for Jon to tell him to go away when Jon rasps out,

“Come in,”

The same emotions that Martin didn't deal with earlier with start to bubble up once he sees Jon again, but there’s something different about the way he’s carrying himself now that Martin can’t place. 

“For me, I presume.” He sniffles. 

“Yes." Martin huffs. "I heard you before, but I just could not, in good conscience, leave you as you are.” He moves to drop the tissues he stole from the men’s room in a spot where Jon can reach them. There are so many files and papers scattered across his desk that Martin can't find a big enough empty space. “You don’t have to wear it.”

“Thank you. Here, I can-” It takes him by surprise when Jon stands, one arm braced on his desk and the other extended towards Martin. He falls back into his chair clutching the sweatshirt against his chest, sighing like he’s just expended a terrible amount of energy. 

Ignoring the heaviness in his stomach, Martin forces himself to say, “Right, well. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Ah, wait--” Martin pauses, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry about my behavior earlier. You’re right. I’m not.... I’m not feeling the best.” Jon admits sheepishly, as if the rumble in his throat and the dulled edges to his consonants don’t already say as much. Regardless. Martin softens. 

“Well yes, I figured as much. Apology accepted. I um- would also like to apologize for my earlier outburst as well...” He trails off, watching with growing concern as Jon listlessly fumbles with his sweatshirt. “Do you need some help?”

“No.” Jon mutters, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t push it. There’s just, so much...” Martin waits in polite silence until Jon’s figured it out. His hair comes out mussed, staticky, and he has to bunch up the sleeves to regain access to his hands. “How ridiculous do I look?”

It’s adorable, more than anything else. It’s clear that Jon is three sizes too small for it. 

Martin shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “I think you look cozy.”

The pointed look he receives in return tells him that Jon knows those aren’t his only thoughts. His features relax soon enough.

“It is rather warm.” Jon looks at his lap, then turns away to cough.

“I thought you’d find it so.”

There’s an awkward pause before Martin speaks again. “Have you considered taking the rest of the day off?”

“No” Jon shakes his head lightly, grimacing a little afterwards. “There’s too much for me to get done.”

“And are you getting anything done?” Jon’s guilty expression says enough. He sniffles thickly.

“I am. Perhaps not as…” Martin has seen him sneeze enough times today to understand that his unfocused gaze is a prelude. He nudges the tissues closer, looking away when Jon pulls a handful and crushes them to his face _,_ before sneezing twice, harsh enough that Martin is surprised the walls aren’t rattling. The sound he makes afterwards sticks with congestion. Martin looks away as Jon blows his nose, though he can’t help but cringe at the sound.

This time, when Martin reaches out, it’s tentative. “Can I?” He asks. The exasperated look he gets back is more like the Jon he knows. He’ll take that. 

“I don’t know why you insist on---” Jon starts, breaking off to cough. He pauses to consider. “Just make it quick.” 

Piercing, dry heat welcomes his fingertips. Martin can’t tell if Jon’s hair is sweat damp or rain damp. This confirmation doesn't make him feel nearly as self-satisfied as he'd thought it would earlier. He frowns. Jon wears a blank, dazed expression. 

“You’re burning, Jon. I’m going to call you a cab,” Martin says, testing the waters. 

“I could do that myself.” 

“I think we both know you wouldn’t.” Jon’s features twist, a corner of his lip curling up and his eyebrows furrowing down with an unspoken retort. But then it passes and he sighs again, shoulders sagging, and Martin knows he’s won. 

“Okay. Go ahead. I’ll...I'll pack my things.”

“Right, then.”

So Martin leaves to make the call. The cab operator tells him that the storm has them busy, that it’ll take twenty or so minutes before one arrives, and he tells them that that’s fine. Jon has already vacated by the time he’s back with the news.

Martin finds him seated alone on a bench at the entryway, tissues in his lap and a knee drawn up as a makeshift rest. There’s more of a draft near the doorway, and Martin can see Jon trembling unabashedly from it before his presence is noticed. 

After stopping in the coatroom, Martin sits beside him. Jon glances up, but doesn’t move his head.

“It’ll be a little bit, but they’ll call me when they arrive. I'll walk you out.” Martin relays the information quietly. “That doesn’t seem comfortable.” 

“It suffices.” Jon replies. 

Martin only hums, scooting closer and looping an arm over Jon’s shoulder. Immediately, he’s met with tension. 

“What are you doing?”

“You seem cold.” There’s a soft sound of protest from Jon, a hybrid of one that he makes when he’s got something to say, but the words never come. After a while, he lifts his head from his knee and lets it rest on Martin’s shoulder in a restrained way that Martin decides not to chastise him about, and they wait, bathed in the gray light of the Institute’s rain streaked window panes. 

Later, Jon will blame it on the fever, cheeks red and lips tight, and Martin will say he knows, he knows. 

Afterwards, Jon will say thank you, frown ever present and eyes distant, and Martin will say of course, Jon. 

_Of course._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :) Hope it was ok!!


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